Tom sighed. “Can you just change the channel?”
“Can you stop watching it?” Max asked.
“I’m not watching it. But I can hear it.”
“Stuff some toilet paper in your ears,” Max said.
Tom seemed to be thinking before he spoke. “If the bad guys bust through our door, I want to hear them before they’re on top of us.”
“Seriously?”
“Is the show’s dialogue so complicated that you have to hear it?”
“What’s your point?”
“If you’re going to watch that stuff, is it too much trouble for you to put it on mute?”
Max became silent for a moment. He pressed the remote control and the sound stopped.
“Thank you,” Tom said, straining to be polite. He turned over as if to return to sleep.
A few minutes later, Max turned the sound back on just to tease Tom for telling him what to do.
Tom stepped out of bed and hopped onto Max’s.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Max shouted.
“Watching TV,” Tom said matter-of-factly.
“Dude, watch TV in your own bed!” Max pushed him, but Tom resisted, so Max pushed harder. Tom’s arm hit the lamp on the nightstand, knocking it off with a racket, but it didn’t break, and Tom remained in Max’s bed.
Tom grabbed hold of the remote control, but Max held onto it. Booty and the Beast played louder. One of them must’ve hit the volume button.
Max kicked Tom out of the bed, and he hit the floor with a loud thud. “Get in your own bed!”
Tom leaped back into Max’s bed and pulled at the covers. “I’m cold, Max.” He struggled to keep a straight face.
The TV continued to blare as Max tried to hold onto the remote with one hand and clasp the blanket with the other. Max was losing the tug-of-war with the cover and had to drop the remote to pull it with both hands. They battled in a noisy tug-of-war, both of them laughing. Tom succeeded in pulling the covers off Max, exposing him in his silk shorts.
“Dude!” Max shouted.
The adjoining room’s door flew open and June burst into Max and Tom’s room with her pistol drawn, scanning the room to shoot the first bad guy she found. Her eyes moved from Tom in his silk shorts and T-shirt to Max in his shorts next to him. Then to Booty and the Beast blasting from the TV. She lowered her weapon.
Max frowned as he pulled the covers over his body, picked up the remote, and turned off the TV.
Tom gave that schoolkid grin again that fooled others but was his secret way of flipping the middle finger to Max.
June shook her head. “I don’t want to know.” And she headed back to her room. “Need to scrub my eyes with a wire brush.” She closed the door.
Tom burst out laughing.
“Dude, that was so not funny,” Max said. He kicked Tom hard, knocking him on the floor.
Tom lay on the carpet holding his belly as he laughed even harder.
In the morning, Lieutenant Morris arrived to take them to their meeting. “Admiral Earp will meet you on his command ship,” she said. Max, Tom, and June silently climbed into the van. The Booty and the Beast incident wasn’t discussed on the short drive to the pier, and everyone had their game faces on. Tied to the pier was the USS Blue Ridge (LCC-19), the command ship for the Seventh Fleet.
Lieutenant Morris helped the four check in at the quarterdeck, then they continued into the belly of the vessel. After navigating the passageways and ladders, she stopped beside a door and said, “This is Admiral Earp’s quarters.” Vice Admiral Earp was commander of the Seventh Fleet. In charge of tens of thousands of sailors and Marines, he commanded the biggest forward-deployed fleet in the US arsenal. Max didn’t regularly associate with admirals, and he rarely met anyone as powerful as this one. He hoped he didn’t choke.
Lieutenant Morris knocked.
“Yes?” came a voice from inside.
“Admiral Earp, your visitors are here, sir.”
There was a pause inside. “Enter.”
Lieutenant Morris opened the door and let the three in before excusing herself. The cabin was roomy, particularly on a vessel where space was limited. Pictures of ships adorned the bulkheads. Marking the center of a navy-blue carpet was an image of the ship’s seal, a ship communicating via red lightning bolt to a satellite above it, which in turn communicated via red lightning bolts with other ships and land. Three naval officers sat in leather chairs.
Max addressed the man with three gold stars on his uniform. “Good morning, Admiral Earp, I’m Max Wayne”—he turned slightly toward his companions—“and this is my brother, Tom, and June Lee.”
Admiral Earp remained seated. He gestured toward the man seated to his right who held half a glass of ice water. On the man’s uniform were two stars, signifying the rank of rear admiral. “This is my deputy commander, Admiral Bolton.” Then he gestured to the man seated to his far right wearing a silver eagle, a captain in the Navy, equivalent to an Army colonel, who was two ranks below the rear admiral. “And my chief of staff, Captain Salazar.” Admiral Earp held out his hand in the direction of the leather sofas. “Please, have a seat.”
Max, Tom, and June sat down.
“We received word that the three of you are posing as defense contractors,” Admiral Earp said.
“Yes, that is our cover, sir,” Max said. “To help us blend in here. CIA has received intelligence about a Chinese operation called Autumn Wind that we believe might be launched against a Yokosuka target. A Chinese special forces operator named Zhao Ye has gone rogue and seems to have stolen aerosol anthrax from China’s bioweapons facility. We suspect his target might be your base here.”
Admiral Bolton sipped his ice water. “This base covers over two square kilometers,” he said. “Could you be a little more specific as to what the target might be?”
Max looked to Tom, signaling that it was his turn.
“As I’m sure you understand, sir,” Tom said, “aerosolized anthrax is a weapon used against a group of people, and if a special forces operator is trying to degrade this base’s ability to fight, he’ll use the anthrax against the officers first.”
“And possibly your senior noncommissioned officers,” Max added.
Admiral Bolton drank the last of his ice water and put an ice cube in his mouth that he held in his cheek while he talked. “You believe that this Autumn Wind might be launched against a Yokosuka target. And you suspect that the target is this base. And you’re guessing that he’ll hit the officer’s club on base or the officer’s mess on board ship here. That’s a lot of guessing.”
“We thought it important enough that we came here personally to tell you, sir,” Max said. “An attack at lunchtime on the base’s officer’s club or the ship’s wardroom would be particularly devastating, sir.”
“For sheer number of casualties and ease of access,” Tom said, “I’d say he’ll hit the officer’s club. But for concentrating the anthrax in an enclosed area and striking the Seventh Fleet’s command ship, I’d bet on Zhao attacking your officer’s mess on board ship.”
“Well, if you were this Zhao,” Admiral Earp asked, “which would you attack, the base or the ship?”
“The ship,” Max and Tom said.
Max leaned forward in his seat. “In addition to the casualties, it would take time for you to decontaminate the wardroom before you could use it again. And if the anthrax spread beyond the wardroom, which it probably would, those areas would need to be decontaminated, too.”
“We haven’t received any photos of this Zhao yet,” Admiral Earp said.
“There are none,” Max said. He turned to June, signaling for her to take her turn.
June seemed to muster all of her courage before she spoke. “I’m the only US intelligence officer we know of who has had direct contact with Zhao.”
Admiral Bolton chewed on his ice, making a crunching sound. “Too bad you didn’t take a picture.”
Once he’d questioned her professionalis
m, June’s mild manner abandoned ship. “We thought we knew all the players in attendance at the party,” she said. “It was by chance that I met a new player—Zhao. I created the only dossier that exists on him. I don’t take a spy camera everywhere I go, sir. But if you’d like me to take pictures of everything I see while on your base, I can begin today.”
Max smiled, glad that she didn’t take shit from the admiral.
“That won’t be necessary,” Admiral Earp said. “We’ll beef up security, particularly at the officer’s club and this ship. NCIS can get you a composite sketch artist, June, so you can give us an idea of what this Zhao individual looks like.”
“If NCIS can give us a copy of that sketch, I’d like to share it with the Agency and the Japanese authorities,” Max said.
“I’m assuming your people and the Japanese authorities are covering the airports,” Admiral Bolton interjected.
“I’ll take care of that,” Max said. “Also, if we could centralize your base surveillance feeds, June can help monitor them. And I’d like to bring in an Agency technical team to assist.”
Admiral Earp turned to Captain Salazar and said, “John, why don’t you arrange for them to use a conference room in the command headquarters building near the main gate and loan them a car to use while they’re here.”
“Yes, sir,” Captain Salazar said.
“And put Max here in touch with NCIS in case they might be of service.”
Captain Salazar nodded. “Yes, sir.”
15
Aboard the fishing trawler, Zhao carried a Chinese knockoff of a Playmate personal lunch cooler. He frowned at the thought of copying someone else’s work to create the cooler, which amounted to nothing more than petty thievery. But when he looked inside, he smiled. Although the Playmate container was nothing special, the two unopened Cokes inside were fake cans that contained the stolen aerosol anthrax. Once the tops were popped, there would be a five-minute delay before the cans began spraying their fog of death. Although ineffective outdoors, indoors the aerosolized anthrax would be deadly. The victims wouldn’t even have to be present when the fog was sprayed. They could arrive later, and their movement would stir up the deadly spores again. Symptoms from inhalation anthrax could take weeks to develop, but this strain created by Chinese scientists would kill within days—the victims wouldn’t know right away that they’d been infected, and the contamination zone would remain a mystery as more people became infected. Under his direction, Coke cans and anthrax had been transformed into this exceptional weapon. It was truly a work of art, which he held in high esteem.
Zhao and Wei sailed from Shanghai using reserve fuel tanks and three pilots, who were also crack mechanics, allowing them to sail nonstop to the Sea of Japan. The nearly two-day journey was more laborious and time-consuming than flight, but it had given them a range of options of locations and times for departure, making it difficult for Chinese spies to follow them. The myriad of sea routes provided them even more avenues to evade surveillance. Likewise, even if people in Japan knew they were coming, they’d be hard-pressed to maintain close surveillance on every kilometer of Japanese coastline.
The current in the Tsushima Strait sped them up the western coast of Japan. As Zhao and Wei stood in the quiet of the pilothouse, Zhao pointed to the area outside the window. “This is where it happened. This is where the fight took place. It was at night, visibility was bad, and the waves were higher than they are now—the Japanese Navy caught the Russian Navy trying to sneak through here.”
“Where?” Wei asked.
Zhao pointed out the positions. “The Japanese used wireless telegraph to bring their fleet into position. As the morning sun approached, the Russians shifted into a defensive formation, but the Japanese crossed in front of them, limiting the Russians to their front turrets. The Japanese unloaded all of their broadside guns—steel battleships against steel battleships.”
Wei nodded.
Zhao viewed the battle waters with reverence. “The Japanese Navy had more experience, and their gunners were better trained, using newer, longer-ranged guns firing high-explosive rounds that destroyed superstructures and caused fires. The fight lasted all day and into the night. Over a hundred Japanese were killed, and they lost three torpedo boats. But thousands of Russians died, and six of their battleships were sunk along with fifteen more of their ships—most of the Russian fleet. It was the beginning of the end to white supremacy.”
Then Wei appeared puzzled. “That happened over a hundred years ago.”
“I was there.” Zhao had read about the battle in history books, but he felt it in his bones and saw it in his dreams as if the battle was his own.
Now Wei seemed even more perplexed.
Zhao wished Wei could understand what he felt, but nobody had ever seemed to understand his feelings on reincarnation. Zhao produced part of a smile, but he couldn’t produce all of it. “Do you believe me?”
“I believe that you believe it.”
“Birth is not a beginning; death is not an end. Space without limitation.” Zhao took out his cell phone and checked it. “We’re in range to transmit.”
“Wonderful.”
“I’ll send the first message,” Zhao said. On his phone, he selected his first sleeper, a Chinese spy in Japan whose regular job was to feed intel to Zhao, who relayed the information to his superiors. Meanwhile, the sleeper waited for a code word to awaken him to his wartime mission. Zhao typed in the text: Autumn Wind Horizontal. Then he touched the send button.
Several hours later, Zhao and Wei’s fishing trawler pulled into Tsuruga Port, where the sleeper, Operator 884, met them, helped load them and their gear in his vehicle, and drove them east. Operator 884 had a solid reputation for moving people and things to, from, and inside Japan, but he also had a reputation for being odd. Maybe his eccentric behavior was why no one in Japan suspected him of being a spy for China. He said something, and at first Zhao thought Operator 884 was talking to himself. But when he kept looking in the rearview mirror at Zhao and spoke again, Zhao realized he was talking to him.
“Sir?” Operator 884 said.
“What?” Zhao asked.
“You killed Russians.”
Zhao didn’t like discussing his personal business. “Not today,” Zhao said.
Operator 884 spoke in the manner of a virgin asking about sex. “What was it like?”
“What was what like?” Zhao asked.
“Killing a Russian. How did you do it?”
“Which one? That was years ago, and I killed so many in so many ways, you’ll have to be more specific.”
Operator 884’s body became more animated, and his eyes lingered so long on the rearview mirror that Zhao feared he might drive them into a ditch. “Of course, that’s why they put a bounty on your head. That’s why they moved you out of China’s operations against Russia. It’s a shame. They should’ve let you kill more. What was it like killing the first one?”
“It’s true what they say about you,” Zhao said. “They call you the Freak.”
Operator 884 forced a chuckle, as if to lightly dismiss the comment about his mental status, but he persisted for an answer. “I’ve never killed a man. I just want to know what it’s like.”
This operator was obviously a fan of Zhao’s, and knowing he could twist Operator 884 around his finger any way he wanted filled Zhao with joy. Zhao’s tone became curt and businesslike. “You keep your mouth shut and your eyes on the road until we arrive in Yokosuka. Then I’ll tell you.”
Operator 884’s eyes dropped from the rearview mirror, and he became silent like an obedient dog.
Satisfaction spread across Zhao’s face, warming him. Wei offered to keep watch and give Zhao opportunity for a nap, so Zhao took him up on it and closed his eyes.
Wei nudged Zhao, waking him from a light sleep. He looked at his watch. They’d traveled three and a half hours.
“We’re in Yokosuka, sir,” Wei said.
Zhao acknowledged with a nod.
Operator 884’s long gaze returned to the rearview mirror. “You were saying?”
“Huh?” Zhao asked, almost forgetting their earlier conversation.
“What it’s like the first time.”
“Oh, that. Hmm. Killing is my job, and I enjoy it the way some people enjoy pasta. It nourishes me, makes me strong. And it gives me indescribable pleasure. The fact that he was a Russian spy was just Parmesan cheese sprinkled on top. That’s what it was like the first time. Like eating pasta.”
Operator 884’s eyes lit up as if he’d achieved some great epiphany. Soon he stopped at the train station, where there was a crowd to blend in with and taxis standing by to take people to their next destination. If Operator 884 were ever captured and interrogated, he’d never be able to tell his captors Zhao’s final destination. Each operator was compartmentalized, and he had no more information than needed to complete his part of the operation. Operator 884 helped Zhao and Wei unload their luggage.
“It was an honor, sir,” Operator 884 said.
Zhao didn’t give him a thank-you or even a gesture of goodbye. It was Operator 884’s honor, not Zhao’s. He walked around the sleeper agent as if avoiding a pile of dog shit.
Operator 884’s eyes beamed with joy.
It felt good to be worshipped, but Zhao didn’t show it or bother to look back.
16
The next morning, life seemed to be going Max’s way, but he knew that at any moment life could kick him in the crotch, so he braced himself mentally as he drove with Tom and June to the command headquarters building near the main gate of the US Navy base at Yokosuka. They entered a temporary operations center. Two Navy techs, one with snowy white hair and the other with jet-black hair, made final tweaks to the equipment. Max and the others examined monitors hooked up to computers that would collect remote feeds of surveillance video from outside the base’s gates, officer’s club, and USS Blue Ridge. So far, so good, but Max was still bracing himself for the kick. He would have to pick himself up quickly in order to win the fight.
Tom addressed the Navy techs, “How are we doing on communications?”
Autumn Assassins: [#3] A Special Operations Group Thriller Page 11